


The Wait for Our Second Spring

by giddytf2



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Every time he returns to this place, he becomes more and more unstable, but the one person who is his anchor, his harbor is here. He has to come back. He has to come back to him, for there’s no one else he has faith in anymore. There’s no one else. Not anymore.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wait for Our Second Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Here be the ninth commissioned story for my [Fanfiction Fundraiser](http://giddytf2.tumblr.com/post/76303040493/fanfiction-fundraiser-500-1000-words-for-us-10), with thanks to [missuzyq](http://missuzyq.tumblr.com/)! What a beast of a story it turned out to be, and one with uber-feels and a long sex scene, ohoho. I…feel like I should warn for a certain aspect of the story, but at the same time, putting a warning for this will certainly spoil the story big time. That, and the warning _isn’t_ quite accurate since the aspect being warned is…vague. Yeah, I know, that was confusing _but_ , if you do want to know what it is and are willing to be spoiled, there are more author’s notes at the end of the story.
> 
> The soundtrack I listened to while writing this is from the Braveheart OST, [The Secret Wedding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXWwAjwJe4E). The song that features in the story is a famous traditional Scottish song called [The Bonnie Banks O’ Loch Lomond](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uZ-p-tN8Gs). Very lovely, and worth the listen for the story!

Every time Sniper returns to this place, the rising sun dims a little more and becomes a little colder. The vast, freshwater lake he stands before sparkles a little less in shards of sunlight. The dozens of verdant islands strewn across its stagnant surface diminish in number. The outer calmness he sees is at odds with the turbulent seas of illusoriness and pain within him.

Every time he returns to this place, he becomes more and more unstable, but the one person who is his anchor, his _harbor_ is here. He has to come back. He has to come back to _him_ , for there’s no one else he has faith in anymore. There’s no one else. Not anymore.

He knows it’s a terrible thing to think, to believe. He knows how much it’ll hurt Mum and Dad, who still speak to him once in a while via phone, who still can’t handle that he’s an assassin, that he’s good at what he does. That he’s in love with another man, a man who’s –

A haunting serenade breaks the morning hush. It silences the songbirds in the looming, surrounding forests with awe. It strikes Sniper straight in the chest like an arrow or a bullet from a long rifle, its words spiraling through his thoughts, his blood:

_By yon bonnie banks,_

_An’ by yon bonnie braes,_

_Where th’ sun shines bright on Loch Lomond,_

_Where me an’ my true love_

_Were ever want tae gae,_

_On th’ bonnie, bonnie banks a’ Loch Lomond …_

He bites his lip, his eyes stark with the storm raging in him. He tugs the red, white and gold tartan blanket closer around his shoulders. He gazes across the lake at the craggy, distinct summit of the mountain beyond, abruptly aware of the bareness of his feet upon smooth stones, of his aching chest under the blanket and that he’s attired only in brown trousers.

Ah god, Tavish is _singing_. Singing the same song he did the night everything began for them.

It’s going to be even harder to leave, this time.

He trudges away from the banks of the lake towards the forests. Twigs and low branches catch in his hair and scratch at his cheeks. Luxurious carpets of moss, bluebells and wild garlic sigh underneath his feet. Ancient trees and lush undergrowth guide him on an absolute path to the mountain, to that breathtaking, steep side where the fated meeting will and always take place. He wants to call out, to shatter the grief now bowing the trees around him. The lump in his throat robs him of his voice.

_Oh, ye'll tak’ th’ high road an’_

_I'll tak’ th’ low road,_

_An’ I'll be in Scotland afore ye;_

_Fer me an’ my true love_

_Will never meet again_

_On th’ bonnie, bonnie banks a’ Loch Lomond …_

He walks faster. He imagines himself there already, there where Tavish is, standing beneath that mighty, old oak tree in the rays of dawn and suddenly, he _is_ there.

_'Twas then that we parted_

_In yon shady glen,_

_On th’ steep, steep side of Ben Lomond,_

_Where in purple hue_

_Th’ Highland hills we view,_

_An’ th’ moon comin’ out in th’ gloamin’ …_

Indeed, Tavish is there beneath that hundred-foot tall, sessile oak tree, speckled in warm light that winks between broad, lobed leaves. He’s attired in a kilt, in the woolen tartan of his DeGroot clan that swathes him from waist to the centers of his knees. From the knees down, his legs and feet are encased in kilt hose with garter flashes and black Ghillie brogues. A sgian dubh is sheathed into his right kilt hose with only its wooden hilt visible. An ornate, horsehair sporran hangs from a silver chain over his left hip.

Tavish is gazing over the top of the forests below at the vast lake beyond, one leg raised and bent at the knee and resting upon a formidable, gnarled root. Tavish is smiling. Tavish has both his eyes, and they glow golden like the sun.

Tavish looks so alive, so beautiful.

Tavish is his destination. His _home_.

“There ye are.”

Tavish is smiling at him, and he doesn’t deserve the devotion he sees in those golden eyes. He really doesn’t. He shakes his head but doesn’t take his eyes off Tavish. He’s pathetic, he’s bloody _useless_ , he is. If he was just smarter, _sharper_ , things wouldn’t be this way anymore and this picturesque, _lonely_ place wouldn’t be the only place they can meet and Tavish wouldn’t be –

“ _Sshh_. No’ here, m' anam-charaid. No’ here.”

Tavish is in front of him, cupping his face with both hands. He feels Tavish’s calloused thumbs rub his cheeks. There’s wetness on them that wasn’t there before. He feels like he should be mortified about it, but the sight of Tavish smiling, still smiling subdues most of his shame.

“Some bloody _soul-mate_ I turn out t’ be,” he rasps. His lips quaver in an effort to curve up.

“Ye doubt my love, even now? Ye doubt _me_?”

He has to shut his eyes for an instant when Tavish traces his lower lip with the pad of a thumb. It feels real, so real. It makes him weak in the knees. It makes his heart stammer in its ribcage.

“How do I know I’m not just dreamin’ all this? Tell me.”

His breath snags in his throat as Tavish slides those large hands down the sides of his neck, over his frantic pulse. Tavish had done that the first night they stayed together till dawn in his camper van in Teufort. He’d had a nightmare, a bad one, one in which he was lost for eternity in a shadowy forest and unable to find his way home. That one touch had soothed him. Stabilized him.

Tavish remembers it.

“I’m here. I can see ye. I can _feel_ ye, yer beatin’ heart. It’s beatin’ so fast, like th’ night we sat under th’ desert stars an’ I kissed ye fer th’ first time,” Tavish says. “An’ I … I _feel_ real. Don’t I?”

Sniper shuts his eyes again. He expects Tavish to vanish at any moment. He’s going to find himself back in his camper van on the outskirts of Sydney, waiting and waiting, alone. He will, he _knows_ he will.

But not yet. Not while Tavish’s hands remain upon him.

“Yes,” he whispers, and something in his voice breaks when his eyes find Tavish’s, when the cogs of the clock counting down the seconds of this fleeting reunion start to turn.

Tavish remembers him. Tavish still remembers them, from before. There’s still hope.

Their dance, a dance older than Time itself, begins anew: They step closer, their chests touching and their noses brushing, their hands entwining at their sides. The red, gold and white tartan blanket slips from Sniper’s shoulders to the green ground. Sniper glances down at Tavish’s full lips then back up at Tavish’s heavy-lidded, smoldering eyes. He’d dreamed about Tavish’s lips long before they actually kissed outside his camper van. He’d felt an indescribable joy when his name, his _real_ name, had unfurled itself from Tavish’s lips for the first time.

Tavish is uttering it now into his lips. Freeing him, if only for a while.

“Lucien. My bringer a’ light.”

Yes, here in this twilight place where there is no one else but them, he is Lucien and he’s kissing the man he loves, the man he fell in love with a lifetime ago and never stopped loving. They can do anything they want here. He’ll do anything Tavish wants him to, anything. He moans into Tavish’s mouth as Tavish deepens their kiss and slides their tongues together. There’s no hint of whisky in Tavish’s mouth but he feels drunk and disoriented. He feels his universe narrow down to Tavish’s lips and tongue, to their growing erections pushing against brown cotton and tartan cloth.

Tavish runs one hand through his hair and then grasps the back of his neck. He in turn enfolds his arms around Tavish’s shoulders, running his own hands through Tavish’s thick, curly hair. He’d envied the black beanie that covered Tavish’s head back in their RED days. He’d envied everything and everyone that could be close to Tavish when he couldn’t, but now, _now_ there’s nothing between them. He moans again into Tavish’s mouth at the thought, and when Tavish moans too, bolts of electricity race through him and make his hips buck.

They tumble onto a dense bed of blue moor grass, purple mountain saxifrage and trailing azaleas. Tavish pins him down with his weight and roves his naked torso with frenzied hands and oh, Tavish is stripping off his trousers and he’s wearing nothing under it. He hears Tavish growl with pleasure at this. He grapples with the buckles and straps holding Tavish’s kilt together. The red, white and gold cloth slithers down and over their tangled legs and _oh_ , Tavish isn’t wearing anything either under it. Tavish’s body is as robust and strapping as it ever was. He feels powerful deltoids and biceps bunch against his palms. He knows Tavish can easily hold him down if he lets Tavish do it.

He _wants_ Tavish to do it.

Tavish seizes his wrists and presses them down on the grass above his head. It makes his arms and torso stretch, turning him into a defined display of lean muscles and tanned skin emblazoned with scars of war and life in the sunlight. Tavish attacks his mouth with more kisses, kissing him more roughly than he’s ever been kissed before, and he takes it all with heart-pounding zeal. He cries out at Tavish kissing down the length of his neck and over his jugular, at Tavish pinching and sucking his nipples. Tavish had made him come just from that before. He grinds his cock firmly against Tavish’s and spreads his legs wide. It’s a desperate plea for more, _more_.

He cranes his head to watch Tavish move lower down to his cock. He lets out a soft, high-pitched groan when Tavish kisses the tip and licks away the drop of pre-come there. Tavish’s barely touched his cock and already he’s on the verge of an orgasm, a bloody huge one. He can’t comprehend how a solitary, misanthropic bastard like him has someone like Tavish for a friend and lover. He can’t comprehend how he, of all people in the world, has the fortune of being bestowed with this man’s respect, this man’s _love_.

It’s like this with Tavish. It’s always so _good_ like this.

He gasps at the beauty of Tavish’s lips wrapping around him with such heat and care. His mind blanks when Tavish starts to suck hard, right there under the head, there, oh _there_. He shudders when Tavish toys with and fondles his balls. He makes it through Tavish deep-throating him four times before his orgasm surges through him like a boundless river after a tempest, arching up and shouting himself hoarse with the sheer force of it. He claws at grass so he won’t accidentally hurt Tavish. He could almost cry at how good it feels, how good _Tavish_ feels.

Even as shivers linger in his loose limbs, he struggles up to a sitting position and pulls Tavish to him. He tastes himself on Tavish’s smiling lips. He kisses Tavish’s jaw and chin as he catches his breath. Then, he swoops down and clasps Tavish’s erect cock and admires it with gleaming eyes. It’s the perfect length and girth for him, always filling him up wholly, stretching him open with that slight sting with the very first thrust. It’s perfect, and he wants it in him so badly.

He revels in the low noise of pleasure that darts off Tavish’s lips as he eagerly sucks and licks the long, thick member. The pre-come is as delicious as honey. When he’s coated the cock with saliva, he lets it pop out of his mouth. He falls back on the grassy bed and lifts his legs to his chest in an unmistakable invitation.

“Want it hard an’ deep, darlin’. Hard as ya can,” he murmurs, husky and fragile.

In this place, it doesn’t hurt at all when Tavish shoves into him and keeps going and going until strong hips smack against his buttocks. The second thrust bumps his prostate and sends lightning down his spine. He moans piercingly and writhes through the next dozen, swift thrusts, all of them hitting his prostate with deadly precision, all of them feeling so good and _deep_ and _hard_. Tavish goes even deeper inside him when his knees are pushed higher up and farther apart. Every time Tavish withdraws, he feels bereft and hollow. Every time Tavish plunges in again, he quakes and gasps and cries out, his hands scrabbling at Tavish’s arms and shoulders on their own accord.

He whimpers when Tavish slows down. He cants his head forward to meet Tavish’s lips with his, sighs his thanks at Tavish gripping the back of his head to support it. Even slow, every thrust of Tavish’s cock into him is gratifying, every inch and stretch pure bliss. He wants this to last forever. He wants to stay here forever with Tavish, to listen to the uninhibited sounds of enjoyment his lover is making, to bask in the expression of total pleasure on his lover’s handsome face.

But he can’t. And even this place, this twilight, magical place won’t be here forever, and when it’s gone, everything in it will die with it, even … _even_ –

“Harder, _deeper_ , Tavish. _Please_.”

Tavish says nothing about the dampness of his eyes, or about the tightening of his arms and legs around Tavish’s shoulders and waist, like he never wants to let him go. Tavish plows into him mercilessly now, crushing him into their bed of grass and flowers, flooding the emptiness within him, quelling the storm there. There’s no pain, none whatsoever, and he’s not ashamed at all to be moaning incessantly like he is and it feels so bloody _amazing_ and oh fuck, _oh fuck_ , he’s coming again and he’s –

_He’s in Medic’s office in the Infirmary at Teufort, and Medic is sitting next to him and he doesn’t want to hear what Medic’s saying but he can’t lock out the deluge of words._

_“Zhe Respawn vorked in reproducing his body, but his … soul, if you vill, did not come back vith it. If zhere is no mind to control zhe body … Herr Sniper, he is essentially de–“_

_“Don’t. Don’t you fuckin’ say it, or I’ll make ya sorry.”_

_He turns away from Medic and stomps out of the Infirmary and he walks and walks and walks and then, his contract with RED is over and he’s back in Australia. He’s standing at a payphone with his camper van behind him. He listens to the Scottish brogue of the kind, sage woman on the other end of the line, and prays to gods he doesn’t believe in that his voice hasn’t cracked._

_“Hate ye? Why would I, when ye love my son as much as ye do? When he loved you as much as he did? Ye didnae know he spoke ‘bout ye tae me, did ye? He did. Aye, he did.”_

_And then he’s walking again, on and on, faster and faster and faster and then he’s in the most exquisite place he’s ever seen, a place of vast, freshwater lakes, opulent forests and islands and towering mountains, a place where the sun is always shining and the breeze is always cool and the songbirds are always singing._

_“I … I’m back in Scotland. But … how? I cannae remember. Lucien, wot happened?”_

_“This isn’t … It – it doesn’t matter right now, Tavish. All that matters is … I – I found you. Ah my god, I found you, I can’t believe it –“_

_“Sshh, luv, I’m all right. See? I’m all right. Really.”_

_“I swear I’ll find a way t’ bring ya back. I swear.”_

_“Bring me back? Tae where? Am I no’ home already?”_

He tries to speak, to hold onto Tavish, to _stay_ but he’s falling, down and down and down through the heavy darkness. It swallows up his roar of frustration and anguish. It mocks his swinging fists and forceful kicks, like it did the last time, and the time before that. He braces himself for impact, knowing the landing won’t be pretty. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He slams onto unforgiving, flat ground and fractures into a billion, irreparable pieces.

His eyes snap open an eon later. His breaths pump harshly in and out of his lungs. He’s naked underneath a flimsy blanket and reclined on his back on a thin mattress and pillow. He sees a steel ceiling painted in a dull beige above him. He’s back. He’s _back_ in his camper van on the outskirts of Sydney and he’s … alone.

He’s alone, though if he listens hard enough, long enough, he can hear a haunting serenade in the distance that silences the songbirds of the Earth with awe. A lump in his throat is threatening to rob him of his voice. Not this time. His crooning is adequate at best compared to Tavish’s, but it doesn’t stop him from joining in, from completing the song he knows by heart now:

_Th’ wee birdie sang_

_An’ th’ wild flowers spring,_

_An’ in sunshine th’ waters are sleepin’,_

_But th’ broken heart it kens_

_Nae second Spring again,_

_Tho' th’ waeful may cease frae their greetin’ ...  
_

And here, his voice drops to scarcely a languid murmur, vibrating with charged emotion he’ll deny to himself afterwards:

_Oh, ya'll take th’ high road an’_

_I'll take th’ low road,_

_An’ I'll be in Scotland afore ya;_

_For me an’ my true love_

_Oh aye, we'll meet again_

_On th’ bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond._

He allows himself a single sob. It wouldn’t do for a professional assassin like him to have _feelings_ , but he’s only human and there’s nothing wrong with releasing a bit of tension. Nothing wrong with that.

With the weight of a thousand regrets upon him, he rolls sluggishly onto his side, away from the sunlit, curtained window beside the bed. With blurry eyes, he gazes at the airline ticket next to his pillow and then picks it up. It’s a one-way ticket from Sydney Airport to Inverness Airport in Scotland. It’s the nearest airport serving the small town of Ullapool over sixty miles away. Ullapool, Tavish’s hometown and the location of DeGroot Keep, home to Tavish’s mother and clan.

_“I willnae take no fer an answer, Lucien Mundy. I know you’re hurtin’, lad, ‘cause you’re no’ th’ only one who is. Ye may no’ believe it now, but you’re family tae us. This place’s yer home too. An’ I know wot they’re sayin’, I know … but I believe ye. I know my son’s alive. I can feel it too. He needs ye tae bring him back. You’re his guide, Lucien. Ye can see him an’ he ye, ‘cause you’re his anam-charaid, an’ he yours.”_

The phone call to Tavish’s mother occurred a week ago. A week before that, Spy had showed up out of the blue to tell him that TF Industries had finally, _finally_ agreed to the DeGroot clan’s appeal to have the Respawn technology and their Respawn records of Tavish made available to them.

_“It is up to you now, isn’t it?”_

_“Do ya even believe me? ‘Bout Demoman? Or are ya laughin’ at me, th’ crazy fella who thinks his dead best friend’s still alive?”_

_“You think me a cold-hearted bastard who feels and believes in nothing.”_

_“You are one.”_

_“True. But you do not realize, mon ami. You were not the only one who left Teufort with your soul in the care of someone else’s hands.”_

Spy had disappeared into thin air after that, cloaking himself before he could reply, before he could ask if Spy had known all along about him and Tavish. Two days before the phone call to Tavish’s mother to talk about the clan’s deal with TF Industries, Spy showed up again with the airline ticket in hand.

_“Madame DeGroot is a very generous lady. One who compensates well for services rendered. And one whose offer you would be wise to accept.”_

He never did ask Spy whether he knew about his true relationship with Tavish from the beginning. He’s certain to see Spy again, if Spy is willing to run errands on Tavish’s mother’s behalf. They may not have gotten along all the time in Teufort, but Spy … Spy didn’t laugh at him. Neither did Tavish’s mother, or her clan.

Maybe, _maybe_ there are some people left in this world in whom he can still have a tiny bit of faith.

One corner of the ticket is already creased from his constant fiddling. He fiddles with it again, his eyes clearer, his shoulders lighter. Tonight will be the last night he sleeps in this old camper van of his. By tomorrow, it’ll be sold off to its future owner with most of the effects in it. It doesn’t sadden him. They’ve had a nice, long run together, but where he’s going, he won’t be needing it, not if Tavish’s mother was truthful about DeGroot Keep having hundreds of rooms to spare and a big, warm bed always ready for one of their own.

In three days’ time, he’ll be on that flight to Scotland.

In three days’ time, he’ll be home.

"I'm takin' th' high road, Tavish. S'time t’ take your road too," he whispers. "I'll be waitin' for ya on th' banks a' Loch Lomond an’ that steep, steep side a’ Ben Lomond, mate. An’ if ya aren’t there yet … I’ll stay an’ bring ya back. I promise."

And if he listens hard enough, long enough, he can hear the jubilant, hopeful chuckle of his handsome anam-charaid standing there beneath that mighty, old oak tree in the rays of dawn. He can.

 

 

 

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the warning is for major character death. However, I’ve written the story in such a way that the reader has the choice of interpreting the situation either way, be it that Demoman is truly dead and Sniper is simply imagining his reunions with him, or that Demoman’s soul was somehow separated from his body from a Respawn gone wrong and is lost in another ‘world’, waiting for his anam-charaid / soul-mate to guide him home. It’s up to you!
> 
> And, _uh_ , I may write a sequel to this. Yep.


End file.
